Great and dismal wilderness? It's been said that the three places with the
worst weather in the United States are the Adirondacks, the North Cascades,
and Alaska. I guess I'm a glutton for punishment. Soon after completing the
forty six, I moved to Washington, and in late August 1990, my wife
Margaret and I joined our Seattle friends Kim and Robert to do a kayak trip
down the Noatak river in Alaska; it turned out to be quite an adventure!
I've never seen such wilderness before, and for good reason: the Noatak is
arguably the largest wilderness river basin in the world. During the trip
we were beginning to believe that it had the worst weather too. Of course,
we knew in advance that the Noatak basin was completely above the Arctic
circle, but we didn't expect it to rain for 12 out of 16 days. The
temperatures never stayed below freezing for long, and luckily the snow
always stayed on the hills just above us, but it was constantly windy.
Except for the last two days, we were always fighting headwinds in the
kayaks. With rain and spray in our faces, the days felt long and tiring.
The misery was compounded by our last minute decision to double our
paddling to a full 375 miles: from the river's headwaters, deep in the
Brooks Range mountains of Gates of the Arctic National Park, all the way to
the Inupaq Eskimo village of Noatak (pop. 290) near the braided delta.
Unfortunately, this change of plans eliminated the option of some leisurely
hikes along the river and put us under tremendous pressure to fight the
elements, make miles, and ensure that we'd get out before running out of
food.

Thus my overall memories of the trip are of challenge. A large part of the
ordeal was physical discomfort, mainly cold, but the mental challenge was
harder. Maintaining good spirits in the face of adversity, discomfort, and
stress for weeks on end, just wishing the trip was over --- it was tough.
For 10 days we saw no one (despite covering 30 miles / day) and we grew to
understand how incredibly vast the area was. I felt small and alone.

We started in Kotzebue, the largest city in NW Alaska (population something
over 3000 people). Although the people were very friendly, one look at the
desolate main street made me happy that I didn't live there; the
dirt track parallels the windswept beach, haphazardly lined with
weather-beaten houses popping from the permafrost on stilts. I wondered how
Margaret would survive her month's rotation at the tiny hospital following our
voyage. The next morning a pilot with the improbable name of Buck Maxim
flew us to Pingo lake (the start of our journey) with two trips of his
tiny plane. For navigational reasons, he kept within a few hundred feet of
ground. The landscape was mottled by lakes everywhere, and with no trees in
sight it was impossible to gain any sense of scale. We landed about 15
miles West of Mt. Igikpak, at 8510 feet, the highest peak in the Brooks
range. That afternoon we took advantage of the (soon to disappear) good
weather and climbed an unnamed 4000 foot peak for fantastic views that
stretched endlessly.

It was astonishing how quickly summer turned to fall and then winter --- we
saw it all. The first day was sunny and warm with just a hint of color in
the small leaves of the tundra. As the cold weather hit, we were struck by
the speed with which the yellows, golds and amber colors deepened. With no
trees in view, the ground had no competition for our attention. It was
hard to look anywhere but at our feet, the patterns were so gaudy and
fascinating. After a week, when the first snows hit the area, the colors
blended into white in the hills and mountains above us providing beautiful
contrasts. When we first arrived, it never got dark. One night when I
climbed out of the tent at 2:30am to pee, it felt like dusk and I couldn't
see stars. By the end of the trip, however, there were several hours of
real darkness at night. In the warmth of my down bag, I pondered the length
of a night in December and was glad I would be far to the south.

The animals were also amazing: Dall Sheep climbing nimbly over the cliffs,
Arctic Ground Squirrels standing erect above neat burrows, Golden Eagles
gliding silently 3 feet above the tundra in search of dinner, a Red Fox
trotting, self-absorbed, along the gravelly bank, Peregrine Falcons,
Green-Winged Teal, Snow Geese flying south, Arctic Grebes, Ptarmagin
flushed into flight, and the eerie cry of Arctic Loons with familiar but
distinct colors. The caribou were everywhere. Their tracks marked every
gravel bar and their cast-off antlers could be found nestled in the red
tinted tundra mosses. We saw solitary bulls and great herds milling south.
Several times we happened to paddle around a bend to find a herd crossing the
river swollen with rain, calves struggling closely behind the adults,
all shaking themselves dry in a flurry of white drops.

The first few days we did not see any Grizzlies and our dissappointed
conversation frequently concerned the probable location of "The Major".
Our first sighting was on a brief hike after lunch - we climbed a knoll and
spotted a huge sow with two large cubs. Luckily, they were upwind and
didn't notice us --- we didn't relish a sprint back to the kayaks... It
was fascinating to watch Ursa's gait; she ambled along with relaxed
yet powerful strides nosing here and there. We really could see her
muscles ripple underneath the thick coat of fur. From then on, whenever we
sighted a grizzly we recalled John McPhee's observation that the grizzly is
more than an animal, it is a symbol of wilderness itself. Because each
bear needs so much land to support itself, each animal symbolizes hundreds
of acres of wilderness. Just seeing a grizzly reminded us how far we were
from civilization.

One night we had just climbed into our sleeping bags when a pack of wolves
started howling. There were many, many voices joining the chorus and it went
on and on. What a mood those tones created, and what dreams!

The trip was also full of adventure. Initially the water level was very
low and the first tender rock scrapes gave gentle warning of the importance
of routefinding through the rapids. There was no second warning ...,
the next day we ripped the shit out of the bottom of our
cheap Soviet-made kayak. We pulled over quickly as water was entering
fast. There were about four incisions, each between 4 and 10 inches long.
As we were only two days into the trip and over 330 miles from
civilization, we quickly considered our supply of patches, glue and duct
tape. The news was not encouraging --- why hadn't we brought a spare roll
of tape? From then on, even the smallest rapid caused me nervousness and
the next few nights I developed a ritual of drying the kayak bottom, making
a close inspection, and repairing / replacing the duct tape reinforcement.

As the trip went on, the problem grew less acute because of the rain. Some
nights the river rose a foot or more. We pondered the balance of the
wilderness... for while the rain made our life miserable, it spared Boris
(our kayak) and increased the current and hence our speed on the river. It
also made the rapids more exciting. Boris had no spray skirt, so whoever
was in the bow frequently got huge standing waves dumped in their lap.
Mmmmm. Cool and refreshing! With the cold weather, we developed the
pattern of stopping every few hours for a break of some calisthenics to
warm us up (with a snatch of food for endurance). These exercises grew so
common that one morning when I heard snorting outside my tent, I assumed
that it was Robert breathing heavily from jumping jacks while waiting for
the coffee water to boil. In fact, it was a herd of caribou panting after
crossing the river and climbing to our campsite knoll!

The weather climaxed in a few wicked storms that kept us tent-bound and
catching up on our reading. I was awfully happy with the performance of
our tent - no penetration. On a few lucky evenings, I remember setting up
camp with marvelous golden light. Perhaps we had time to stroll to a hill
above camp and gaze over the countless lakes and ponds created by the
permafrost's poor drainage. Most days, however, we eased the torment of
kayaking with a ritual of the dinner menu. Since the couples alternated
cooking duties, they also traded the challenge of gourmet menu description.
With careful crafting, a complete evening's menu could distract paddlers
for a full half hour. Dinners were the highlight of the trip, and they
always started with the cocktail hour. Red wine and gin were the
favorites, followed by a course of miso soup (with more traditional hearty
fare for Robert). The main courses ranged from pad thai to pasta primavera
--- all were excellent! In the mornings, we were sometimes treated to
baked goods (banana bread, cinnamon rolls, etc) by Kim; what a way to wake
up!

On a grand scale, the river was divided into four sections, each with a
very different feel. Initially, we were surrounded by high mountains; the
river was small and shallow. After a few days, the valley opened up to a
huge plain; navigation was difficult with few recognizable hills to track.
Then the mountains closed in again as we entered the Grand Canyon of the
Noatak; by this time the mountain summits were draped in white affording a
stunning backdrop for the fall foliage. When we left the sharp Noatak
Canyon, the valley opened up again, but the ambience was quite different
because we could still see distant mountains in all directions. The
river started braiding fiercely with the flood waters and navigation became
almost hopeless. We started to see trees! With the vast mountains behind
the first stands of dark evergreens and small groves of yellow cottonwoods,
both Margaret and I felt that we were finally getting to see the Alaska we
had expected from photos.

In the last few days, our solitude was touched by the proximity of the
village of Noatak. During the day we saw several hunting parties cooking
Caribou steaks on gravel bars. At sunset we heard power boats whining back
to the village, laden with up to five carcasses. When we finally arrived
at our destination, it seemed that every child in the town came out to
greet us. We had all the help we could wish, moving gear to the landing
strip and dismantling the boats. Throughout the afternoon, Honda ATVs
(some loaded with up to seven bored kids) zoomed by our stash, around and
back again. Noatak, it seemed, did not supply too many entertainment
alternatives. It being Sunday, we were invited to church at six. Everyone
was there for the "Friends" service that seemed more Baptist than Quaker.
Lots of singing. Afterwards we were besieged with introductions and
invitations to dinner. We accepted one and followed Ricky Ashby home to a
modest apartment for some Caribou stew and wild berries - a typical and
delicious meal. The conversation with Ricky (about traditions, elders,
relations with the US government, and alcoholism) were fascinating. We let
ourselves be coaxed into spending the night and got a huge feast for
breakfast. Soon we flew back to Kotzebue, ending a memorable trip that I
hope keeps its ``unique'' place in my experiences.